


The Quietest Song

by Gotcocomilk



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Feelings Realization, Fix-It, Fluff and Angst, Jaskier becomes court bard of Cintra, M/M, Pining, hand jobs in a forest anyone
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-07
Updated: 2020-03-11
Packaged: 2021-02-28 19:55:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,664
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23052838
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gotcocomilk/pseuds/Gotcocomilk
Summary: There were moments in life that shaped men, pauses in the movements of the world where a single choice changed all of fate. There were moments that carved into the bones and heart of humanity, for long after history had become myth.There were moments that changed men, and there were men that changed moments.And then there was Geralt.Or: five times Geralt wanted Jaskier to shut up, and the one time he didn't, and how that changed the fate of the world.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 31
Kudos: 409





	1. The Silence

**Author's Note:**

> The second part of this is written I just need to edit-- I'll probably try to get it up tomorrow!

There were moments in life that shaped men, pauses in the movements of the world where a single choice changed all of fate. There were moments that carved into the bones and heart of humanity, for long after history had become myth.

There were moments that changed men, and there were men that changed moments.

And then there was Geralt.

“You can’t even put on fresh clothes for a moment? Really Geralt, I would have thought you would want to feel the sweet touch of a woman sometime before the next decade. Or well, with your life span, century.”

That earned him a glare, bright as precious gems and unsettling as wolf eyes in the dark. Those were inhuman eyes, staring at him across the top of a tankard. They were made from something Jaskier could never touch, beyond the place he could smile and charm his way into.

Those eyes were more than human, and with the mortal blood pounding in his veins and the soft skin of his hands, Jaskier could never understand that.

But he could sing them a damn fine song.

“Eyes like stars that glimmer in the night, damned annoying but oh so bright.”

The words were light as the eyes that glared him down, a lilting tune made from years of practice.

“Shut up,” came the response, growled and dark. The witcher tugged his tankard forward as he spoke, calloused fingers pressing into the wood and metal to dent it. Jaskier let his eyes slide away from those fingers, from their strength and pale gleam.

Truly, Geralt never appreciated the subtleties of his craft.

“What, I can’t sing about how fine your eyes look in the lovely, sparkling light of this tavern?”

The dingy torches flickered as he spoke, as if to dance to his tune. The walls were stained with smoke and dust, and they looked like they’d spent four days up a chimney and three being dragged behind a horse.

Quite lovely, indeed. But Geralt didn’t seem to appreciate his fine humor, or the fine melody of his voice. The man only glared as the torches flickered with Jaskier’s words. Fitting, the light should dance to him. Jaskier had always felt most at home on a stage; he was glad the light understood that.

He was less glad that Geralt seemed ready to turn and leave.

“Really, Geralt? I am singing for you, you know. With each song, the fairest maids will swoon at your eyes.”

Just as Jaskier would swoon, were he the swooning type. Were Geralt the type to allow it, when the man’s fingers bent tankards without a thought.

“Stop singing about my eyes, bard.”

Jaskier rocked back on his heels, weight light with a dancer’s motions. _Bard_ meant Geralt was annoyed, and the tone meant it was serious.

But really, when was Geralt not annoyed?

“How bout this, my stinky friend. I will stop singing about your eyes if you start wearing decent clothes. With no holes, even, perish the thought.”

The words rang like bells in the dark light of the tavern, and they rocked through dirt and shadows to escape into the air. It was a lie, made with a silver tongue and a smile.

But they both knew that. Jaskier would never stop singing about his muse, come the last frost of winter or the first breeze of summer.

Oh, he could find other inspirations, in the curve of a woman’s breast or the bright sword of a lion queen, in the light of the setting sun or the strength of a man’s arm. There was nothing too small to write a song about, for a bard with his talents.

But there was no one like Geralt, in all the kingdoms and all the taverns of the world. Jaskier would be a fool of a bard, to give up an inspiration like that. He would be a fool of a man, to give up a friend like the witcher.

Despite Geralt’s grunts to the contrary, Jaskier had never been a fool.

“You’re lying,” the man said, in gruff voice and sharp tone.

“Why, I would never. Really, Geralt, you stain my honor.”

The witcher stood, in a motion like a moving sword, quick and graceful as a warrior. Jaskier’s eyes traced the motion, caught in the mesmerizing strength of every movement. Really, Geralt was a muse worth studying. For songs and ballads alike, for the glory and fame of a tale older than man, Jaskier would study him.

He could write history, if he only watched Geralt sip ale in a dingy tavern a little longer.

“I don’t need any maids to swoon at me,” came at last, breaking the silence between them and catching Jaskier’s breath like quicksilver.

Then the man stepped away, and golden eyes left with him.

⊱ ━━━━.⋅❈⋅.━━━━ ⊰

The next song was light and lilting, cut from the cloth of Jaskier’s talent and sung to fly in the wind. It was loud too, even in the open air of the wilderness. Leaves held his melody, just as bark shook before it. The ground beneath his feet was soft with each step, and softer with each note from his lute.

The forest did not welcome him, but it held his song. It traced his steps with watchful eyes, but Jaskier did not fear; he walked with Geralt, and the wind welcomed them both.

That alone would be worth writing a song for, but Jaskier followed a muse like no other. There would be more songs, a thousand more, odes and ballads to still the angriest heart. His songs would quiet rage and stir awe, would shake courts and the foundations of history.

Maybe, someday, they would shake Geralt too.

“Toss a coin to your witcher, oh forest so empty, toss a coin to your witcher, so we don’t starve in the damn wilds,” his voice began in-tone and beautiful, forged from long days of training and the careful application of fine wine. He had to keep his throat soft and pliable for song, of course.

If only Geralt understood that Jaskier needed the finer things in life.

There was only a grunt in answer, quiet and uncaring. It was lower pitched than the usual fare, rough as stone falling in an avalanche. Jaskier had spent years learning the language of one Geralt of Rivia, and he knew every grunt like they spelled words.

This one meant, _Oh Jaskier your point is very good, but because I’m a gruff and tough witcher I must ignore it._

Jaskier was quite fluent indeed.

“Really Geralt, must we traipse through all this wilderness? I’d like a warm bed and wine sometime in the next century, you know.”

He stepped light feet across the ground as he spoke, and each root seemed to reach for his boots to grip him. Lucky, that he was skilled and graceful as a dancer. Luckier still, that Geralt curled a hand across his arm to hold him up.

Callouses caught on the fine silk of his doublet, rough with the marks of a rougher life. They were hands Jaskier had written songs to, hands that cut paths through life and fate.

They were warm.

“Jaskier,” Geralt growled, voice low with warning and quiet as a hissing cat. It was a deep voice, made for threats and the dark shadows of the world. It was made to whisper beneath the moon, send shivers running up the spines of handsome bards. Like thick paint on a canvas, it painted a lush scene across Jaskier’s mind, made from long nights and shining swords.

The image really would be complete, if only Geralt turned so Jaskier could see uncanny eyes.

“Shut up,” the witcher finished, and hauled him forward. But the fingers were a shade before bruising, and they did not tear his doublet but hold him steady. Jaskier had been thrown out of a lady’s bed with more force. Really, Geralt was being far too gentle.

“Geralt, I am a bard. I don’t shut up for coin or fear, as you well know.”

That wasn’t true, but it was close enough. Jaskier had spent the fine years of his life dancing through the world, and with each step he sung a new song. The melody of his life wouldn’t stop, and so neither would his voice.

But for the right cause, he could quiet. Sometimes. If the gag was fine enough, and the fingers tying it strong enough.

If eyes glittered with enough light.

Geralt sighed, the sound echoing through the wilds around them. It sounded like a man at the long end of a strong rope. Maybe the witcher needed a fine inn to relax in too.

“Is there anything that would shut your mouth? Or can you not shut up?”

“Oh I’m sure I could think of a few things,” Jaskier replied, words quick as a swallow’s flight and just as daring. They were unstoppable too. In any other time, Jaskier could have looked away to a fine maiden, smirked at a passing warrior.

In the echoing silence of the wilds, there was only Geralt. And in the echo of Jaskier’s words, Geralt was silent.

“Not, that any are applicable here of course. It’s far too rugged out here, and I mean I’m a man of comfort you know, not that I mind a tumble through the hay but—“

With each word the song in his voice spun faster, and with each breath, Jaskier felt hotter than before. He could speak fast enough to burn the sun, if only he broke into song.

But the forest around them was dark with dappled shade, and Geralt’s eyes were bright when they caught his.

Jaskier closed his mouth.

“And I thought you didn’t shut up from fear,” the man said after a long moment, body moving like a hunting cat through the woods.

Jaskier, for all the words humming across his tongue, didn’t reply. The witcher was right, after all; it was fear, thrumming across his veins and the shaking strings of his lute.

It was so much more than fear.

⊱ ━━━━.⋅❈⋅.━━━━ ⊰

Jaskier had never been one for the rough beds and rougher food of the wild. He was a creature made from fine comforts and finer wine, from soft beds and softer bodies. Jaskier was meant for court, not camp.

But he followed the story, and the story echoed in Geralt’s steps.

Sadly, Geralt’s steps had gotten them stuck in the depths of a dark forest, where the only light that shone was from Geralt’s eyes. On any other day, Jaskier would have spoken quick words until the man growled and walked quicker steps away.

But there was a mad golem between them and their exit, stone crashing on stone in threat. But there was a strong body pressed against him, thigh to thigh and muscled chest warm and broad. The sharp metal of a medallion dug into Jaskier’s skin, wolf teeth biting him as Geralt’s breath cut across his neck.

Jaskier was, quite frankly, doomed. There was no other bard in the world with looks as fine as his, but there what they lacked in looks they must make up in luck because Jaskier’s luck had run out.

Really, did Geralt have to smell so deeply masculine? Jaskier was going to fall forward into the man’s scruffy beard and lose his mind.

There was no one in all of the North with his problem: his bane, his curse, and his fine voice were all one, in this moment.

In the filthy corner of this shadowed cave, with danger sounding loud steps around them, Jaskier couldn’t stop talking.

Had Jaskier mentioned they were pressed together? He had, hadn’t he. It seemed important, just like the racing beat of his heart and the frantic rush of nerves.

“Jaskier, shut up.” The words were hissed out, furious and quiet as steps on soft ground. It was a gruff voice, Jaskier noted, as hot air rushed over his face and over the delicate skin of his neck.

Had he been speaking aloud? It made sense, all things considered. Nerves made for foolish tongues.

“Geralt, I’m sorry but I really can’t, didn’t realize until now that fear makes me chatty but I quite should have, all things considered. Did you know that this cave is quite dark?”

Geralt’s hands were holding them both up, straining and solid as rock. Crumbling stone faded away beneath their feet, but calloused fingers held high above them and did not waver.

The man really was strong.

“Jaskier for once in your life, shut up.”

The golem took a step closer now, the slide of scales on rock loud in the cave. It sounded like precious gems had been tumbled all across the stone floor and left to gleam in the light of Geralt’s eyes.

Jaskier wanted to collect them all, as soon as his fingers weren’t shaking in fear and a beast wasn’t slithering behind him.

If only he could stop talking.

“Apologies Geralt, but really I can’t stop I—”

The first thing to register was warmth, hot as fire and rough as a storm. The second was the burn of scruff, and the scars that cut across Geralt’s lips.

Jaskier was soft and made for fine courts and fine cloth. Geralt was tough, made for the harshest places of the world.

But this kiss was gentle as a spring breeze.

It took a heartbeat, for Jaskier to breathe. It took him more, to taste the flavor of cold iron across his tongue. Geralt tasted like old beer and smoked meats, like the sharpest edge of danger, laid bare and lethal in the shadows.

He tasted like the wilds they walked, and Jaskier wanted to spin that flavor into song, if only to remember it longer.

If only.

Jaskier was irresistible, that he knew. He had learned that in the decades of his life, charming maidens into bed and falling into the beds of a dozen strong men. His looks were fair, his voice lovely, and the curve of his smile dropped underthings faster than a sword could cut them. But he had never thought that would work on Geralt. He had never thought Geralt’s lips would be so soft.

He had thought of Geralt, but not like this.

Well, not more than once, on a dark and stormy night when his bed was cold and his fingers wandered. Not more than twice, certainly.

Definitely not more than a dozen times. But with lips on his, Geralt was all he thought of.

The golem lumbered away eventually, but Jaskier didn’t hear its steps. His ears were tuned to the sound of Geralt’s slow breaths, to the creaking weight of leather and the whisper of cold steel.

Jaskier was a bard to the core of his marrow. The leaves danced at his song, and the wind carried it far. Beggars and kings leaned in, to hear his voice.

But Geralt leaned away from his kiss, and the song fell silent.

⊱ ━━━━.⋅❈⋅.━━━━ ⊰

There was a bright edge to Jaskier’s voice, unstoppable and warm. It tasted like the mellow flavor of mulled wine, like the crisp bite of a fresh apple.

It tasted beautiful, but he wasn’t singing.

It had been a day since the cave, a day since Geralt had crushed a golem under quick silver and quicker casting. It had been a day since Geralt had kissed him, lips gentle and scruff rough.

It had been a day since the man spoke too, and Jaskier knew why.

Oh he had waited. He had sung too, talked nonstop for hours into the air of the forest around them. Jaskier had pulled out every ounce of his charm and every piece of his training as bard and storyteller.

It hadn’t worked. Now there was only thing left to do: ask.

“Really, Geralt, are we not going to talk about the kiss?”

The only response was a twitch of broad shoulders, annoyed and quiet in the morning air. A twitch was far from enough, not when Jaskier knew the taste of witcher. Not when he wanted more.

Time for Jaskier to use his voice for a finer purpose.

“I could sing about it instead you know. How soft your lips were, for such a gruff man. How gentle your hands cradled my face, how your sword callouses pressed into my skin and left me shaking, how—“

The steps stopped, as the man himself stopped. White hair gleamed brighter than the sun overhead, and brighter than any fame. It was beautiful, in a scruffy way. It would be more lovely, if Geralt ever brushed it.

If only Geralt would always look at him with those eyes. Jaskier wanted to stare long enough to write a thousand odes.

It was so troublesome, having a muse like Geralt of Rivia.

“Shut up, Jaskier,” came the reply, and this time it sounded rough as broken rock. The witcher’s steps grew longer now, each one a beat in the song pounding through Jaskier’s veins.

The steps were quicker too, but Jaskier only smiled, bright and playful. He was getting to Geralt, if the man walked faster.

What else could he get to, he wondered?

“Well why don’t you make me shut up, hmm? You seemed to learn the trick of it, and I think I’ve earned another kiss for all my fine song and finer words, don’t you? I’ve made you so much coin after all, and I’ve even sung enough that people forget how much you smell.”

He sped up too, though his legs were not as long and his stride not as powerful. It didn’t matter; Geralt didn’t walk faster than a bard could catch.

“Jaskier,” the man growled, dark with a thousand warnings. The name tumbled down Jaskier’s back and across his spine, making the very silk of his doublet prickle. He smiled, sly and quick.

Fear made his heart beat fast; Geralt’s eyes made it beat faster still.

“Really, Geralt, its only a kiss. No need to get your knickers in a twi—”

Lips cut him off again, as they had in a cave days ago. But this time it was not gentle, and Geralt did not freeze under the footsteps of a golem.

This time, the witcher moved like a hungry beast, come to bite into his skin and mark him.Jaskier’s flesh was quite tender, and he wasn’t sure he’d survive such a mauling. He wanted it anyway, wanted to feel the strength of Geralt’s hands under his thighs. Those hands had earned rough callouses, on the road of a witcher.

Jaskier thought his song had earned him the feel of those hands.

From the way Geralt’s fingers curled around his waist, he thought the witcher agreed. Those fingers dug into his clothes, pressed light bruises across his skin. They made Jaskier tremble, a shiver spreading like poison on his skin.

He had sung a thousand songs to Geralt’s skill in battle, but he had never known those hands would feel so big. He had never known they could cover his waist so wholly.

Jaskier had never known just how doomed he’d be, but he was starting to get an idea now.

Maybe he’d even write a new song for this. It would be a private song, he knew. It would be the one song Jaskier never sang, though it would always thrum in his veins as blood rushed in them now.

It would be one of his greatest.

It took only a moment, for Geralt to press him back against a tree. The rough bark bit at his doublet, but Jaskier’s protest was devoured before it could reach the air.

How rude of Geralt, to not give him the space to moan. Really, did the man not want to hear his voice cry out in pleasure? Jaskier’s voice was finer than any other; it was finer still, when gasping out a name.

The man would learn he was sure, just as soon as Jaskier wasn’t being kissed out of thought and mind.

Soon, surely, the man had to breath soon. Calloused hands ran under his doublet, catching on the lines of his skin and bruising it into pleasure.

Jaskier would be able to think soon, he was sure.

Slow as the fading notes of a melody, Geralt pulled back. It was like the chill of winter come after a hot summer, kissing across his lips and making him shiver. It was cold, and Jaskier didn’t care for it.

Really, what gave Geralt the right to ravish his mouth and then not follow through?

For a moment, the man said nothing. Bright eyes stared at him, sparking in the forest like gold under candlelight. Jaskier could get lost in those eyes, in the swirl of warrior and winter. He could get lost in the broad shoulders pinning him against the tree too, in the creak of hard leather and the scent of sword oil.

He could do without the smell of ten-day old sweat, but there was no time for a bath in this tryst. Next time, perhaps.

Next time Jaskier could rub Geralt’s bottom.

If Geralt wouldn’t say anything, Jaskier would. Words were his trade and his craft, and he would speak as many as it took. He wanted to feel those hands on the skin of his fine ass, and something harder than a sword splitting him open.

“Geralt,” he began, and the word was rough and breathless. It didn’t sound like his voice, not the well-trained notes of a bard.

It sounded rough as if he’d—

Well. It sounded like he’d been keeping his mouth busy in a different way. Not that Jaskier would mind that, when Geralt pressed against him. Not that Jaskier would mind that at all. From the dangerous inhale Geralt took, the man agreed.

“Geralt, you don’t push a man up against a tree to kiss him silly without following through.”

“Who says I won’t follow through?” Came the response, growled out and rough enough to make Jaskier tremble. Strong hands slipped into his shirt as the man spoke, callouses rough on his skin and rougher on his lust.

They felt perfect on his cock though, when the laces of his pants slipped free.

“Geralt,” he moaned, breathless and quiet as a bard never was. “Are you—“

The words cut off with a kiss, but Jaskier couldn’t object. His moans were devoured now, eaten by the hungry wolf that pressed him to this rough tree in a wild forest and stroked him hard.

He would be singing a fine song of lust and gasps, if the man let him speak. But the witcher was far too good with his hands for Jaskier to complain.

He came like that, at the mercy of Geralt’s fingers and growls. He shook to pieces, legs gone to intoxication far different from drink.

Geralt only growled deeper.

“Jaskier,” he said, and bright eyes sparked with a question. Jaskier could only have one answer to a question like that, not when the taste of cold iron and Geralt lingered on his tongue.

“Geralt if you don’t turn me around and slide a cock in my lily-white bottom, I will be very disappointed.”

Jaskier was very much not disappointed. Not the first time, and not the second, and not for many times after that.

⊱ ━━━━.⋅❈⋅.━━━━ ⊰

A few years passed like that, with witcher and bard riding side by side. Or well, walking, sometimes, until Jaskier bought a horse of his own. No matter how sweetly he sang, Geralt wouldn’t let him ride Roach.

Truly, the witcher had no appreciation for Jaskier’s finer talents.

They threaded through each others lives, and Jaskier’s song grew stronger with each adventure. He collected a thousand melodies, and each was better than the last. Each spread across the land like wildfire too, the tales of Geralt of Rivia mesmerizing.

Jaskier only smiled, and played them louder. He’d love to be the court bard for a fine king, someday. He thought he could enjoy it, as he enjoyed the finer things in life. The taste of good wine called him to court, but Jaskier didn’t walk those paths yet.

A bard followed his muse, and this muse wandered through swamps like they were day strolls through a city. Jaskier’s boots were ruined, but he kept following for long years. The song under his skin grew with each day, with each bickering argument, with each roll in the sheets and hot breath on his back.

The song grew stronger, until Jaskier thought it could consume him and he’d thank it.

And then a man walked into a tavern with a dragon hunt, and those few years were no more.

⊱ ━━━━.⋅❈⋅.━━━━ ⊰

It took so few words, to break a heart. It took fewer to slash a friendship to pieces and watch it flutter away in the air.

For all his gruff silence, Geralt had always used words well. Jaskier wished he didn’t. He wished many things, on the day bright eyes cored into him like a knife to the gut.

The sun was too cheery for this day.

“If life could give me one blessing, it would be to take you off my hands,” the witcher said, the growl of an angry wolf echoing over the mountain side. There was no humor in that voice, and no annoyance.

It was rage, painted on bright eyes that Jaskier had seen go soft with pleasure.

“Right,” he said, and felt the word leave his mouth with no melody.

Right, he said, and felt there was nothing right in the world at all. Maybe now he knew what a sword to the gut felt like. Maybe now he understood.

And so Jaskier left. He stepped away, stone loud beneath his boots and sky bright overhead. He thought he could hear the notes of that final song, burning away in the horizon.

He thought he could see it die, that most private of songs.


	2. Slow Burn

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the delay, I could not for the life of me get the ending to cooperate-- but here we are!

There were moments in life that changed men. There were places in the world where the air trembled against the howls of fate, and the very wind spoke of a future that would cut kings to pieces.

There were moments that changed men, and there were men that changed moments.

Jaskier had never been one of those men. He stood on the side, a chronicler and bard, a man of quick wit and quicker tongue.

He was not the man who shaped history; he was the man who watched it, lute ready for playing and feet ready for fleeing. Jaskier did not live in moments but record them. Even when he wanted to. Even when it was vital.

Jaskier couldn’t change fate.

None of that explained why he was here, doublet tightened up his neck and sweat beading over his hairline. None of that explained the urge that had driven him across the land and into the cold walls of this palace, to stand before a deadly queen. None of it explained the hole gaping in his heart, deep as if an iron sword had cut through his lungs.

But Jaskier already knew what had carved the last one.

“You want to be assigned to my court, bard? Do you take me for a fool? I know you travel with that damned witcher.”

Queen Calanthe looked vicious as a lion lounging on a throne, bright and with the teeth of a hunter. The world kneeled before her, as Jaskier bowed before her. Her eyes were narrow with fury, and the sheen of her sword glimmered in the light of court. Jaskier imagined he could write a song for this warrior queen, and it would be beautiful and furious as a storm. It would mark the life of a strong woman, and it would mark it well.

But it would not be a private song.

“I am a friend of Geralt’s no longer, your majesty.” The words tasted like lies on his tongue, dry as ash and brittle bread. Jaskier found he didn’t want to say them, for all that words came easily to his tongue.

But Geralt had said them first, and so they were true. Jaskier didn’t care, really. He didn’t; it meant less time wandering the wilderness and getting mud smeared on his best boots.

It meant fewer hands pressing into his skin, but that was fine too.

“Oh, has the Butcher of Blaviken thrown you away? Then what, do you want to get into the underclothes of every lady in the palace then? Spit it out, bard.”

Jaskier gulped, a quiet thing that lingered in his throat. He didn’t think about the words, and did not linger on the threat. His wit had always saved him, and it would save him again now.

Really, his tongue was his best asset. Even Geralt—

The air suddenly felt stiflingly warm.

“No no, of course not your majesty, I simply want to write songs about you,” he said, face painted into the lines of respect and eyes wide with truth. If he bowed lower this time, it was only to ensure the queen knew where his intentions lay.

It was for nothing else.

“You don’t fool me, bard. But this court has been lacking in entertainment,” the words were dark and amused, echoing in the fine walls of the fine hall.

Really, did the queen need to sound so predatory? Jaskier thought he’d be eaten alive, if he stepped wrong.

A good thing then, that his feet could dance so well.

“You can stay. But bard,” the queen said, in the last notes of dismissal. Jaskier sketched another bow, fine and elegant. He had always been the picture of grace, meant for the gilded halls of any court before any cold wilderness.

Really, this is where he belonged.

“Yes, your majesty?”

“If you try playing any of that maudlin shit, I will have you thrown off the roof.”

“Y-yes, your majesty.”

⊱ ━━━━.⋅❈⋅.━━━━ ⊰

In the first year, Jaskier walked the halls alone. His clothes were fine, and his voice finer than any bird’s. But there was a song missing from his lute strings he couldn’t help, a hollow space beneath his ribs that spoke of the greatest loss a bard could bear.

A muse really was a rotten thing to lose.

At the end of the third week at Calanthe’s court, a man with the kind smile and sharp eyes spoke to him. Jaskier had seen him before, on the night when Geralt had claimed a child surprise. He had hoped the man would remember him for his fine song, or finer looks. He had hoped it would be a way to turn the queen’s gaze from suspicious to trusting.

But fate wasn’t on his side. Fate had never been on his side.

“You’re the one that dressed Geralt like a sad silk trader, aren’t you?”

The words were light and amused, and they echoed through the hall without mercy. Jaskier could hear the faintest notes of a Skellige accent threading through them, and it sounded like the first storm on high seas.

He wanted to groan.

Really, was he never going to live that down? Was everything he did tied to Geralt forever? Was that the fate of a bard with a muse so unstoppable?

His lute trembled with an unplayed song.

“I really can’t be blamed for the poor fashion choices of a witcher,” he said, voice light as a summer’s breeze. He couldn’t keep out the edge of longing clinging to the edges, the hurt like a knife cutting across silk.

The man laughed, bright and merciless.

“I didn’t expect that tone. Sounds like the you have some issues with the Geralt too, bard. I think you’ll fit in this court quite well.”

Somehow, the man with the bright eyes didn’t look happy about that. Jaskier didn’t feel happy about it either.

⊱ ━━━━.⋅❈⋅.━━━━ ⊰

It was in the second year that the princess approached him. She was small, and a child— that alone made Jaskier want to run like he was being chased from a queen’s bed. He never did well with children, not even when he tried. They didn’t appreciate the finer notes of his music, couldn’t hear all the care he put into every song.

And they always wanted to touch his lute. No one touched the lute.

But Ciri’s eyes were sharp, and her questions thoughtful. She asked of the land outside, of the highest mountains and the darkest caves.

She asked of the world, and he sung it to her.

Under the watchful eye of Queen Calanthe, he told her of the sunshine, of the way the sea looked after a long night, of the way leaves fell in haunted forests. He painted a picture of beauty, when the lioness was home.

When the queen was off at battle, in the lonely corners of the grand castle, he told her stories of the noble witcher and his dashing bard. They were quiet things, only allowed out of earshot of all the nobles and in the gentlest part of the afternoon.

Jaskier didn’t sing those songs for anyone else, not anymore. The queen didn’t want to hear them, not when her eyes were fierce as a lion’s and twice as dangerous. The court couldn’t afford to hear them, not when word of Geralt was forbidden and Calanthe’s temper was fierce.

But the princess wanted to hear them, and who was Jaskier to turn down an audience?

If he spoke a little quicker, when describing Geralt, that was his business. Clearly, he was just keeping the royalty happy.

That was all it was.

Weeks passed like that, in the lofty halls of Cintra. Jaskier even grew to like Ciri, as winter crept in like a storm. She was a smart kid, clever and curious at the world. She never asked to touch his lute, either.

Naturally, that meant she asked the worst questions.

“What was he like?” She asked once, and Jaskier thought of a thousand nights spent at Geralt’s side, of a thousand days watching the man fight.

He thought of the smell of monster shite, coating Geralt from head to toe. He thought of cheap ale and the threat of a dagger to his throat.

He thought of Geralt, and the bitter taste was too bright on his tongue.

“Devilishly quick with a sword, stubborn as a mule. Very nice to loo—“

What a surprise that he’d start coughing so suddenly. He told another story that night, and it was as his words faded from the air that Ciri asked the deadliest question of all.

“Do you love him,” the princess asked, bright eyes wide and careful. Jaskier had never shut up faster. He had never left faster either, feet sweeping him away from the castle like the notes of a jig haunted his steps.

He walked past the baker that made the best bread Jaskier had ever tasted, but he smelled nothing but ash and dragon smoke. He walked past the tavern that he sang in most days, until the night was old and the morning young.

He had lived in the city for two years, and danced its paths in fine doublets. Now he walked those streets, eyes unseeing and lute silent.

“Bollocks,” he said, and the word was quiet.

He loved Geralt.

⊱ ━━━━.⋅❈⋅.━━━━ ⊰

He spent a year trying to finish the song. He spent a year singing it in every quiet moment, humming it beneath his breath and letting it linger on his tongue.

Jaskier spent a year trying to let that most private song into the world, because maybe then it wouldn’t be so strong. Maybe now that he knew what it was, he could sing it loud.

Bards had used love as a muse for as long as lutes had strummed into the air. Surely Jaskier could do the same. He was a bard like no other, and his charm was unmatched.

Surely, if Jaskier sang this song, it would let him go.

But a year passed, and the song didn’t leave his tongue. Trust Geralt to be a stubborn bastard, even in this.

⊱ ━━━━.⋅❈⋅.━━━━ ⊰

It was on the last day of the third year, that Jaskier saw the witcher again. Geralt looked good, even dragged before Calanthe by rough hands. There wereguards on either side and the witcher’s swords vanished into the castle.

Jaskier didn’t worry, for all the threat in the room. Calanthe had the temper of a lion, but she didn’t kill innocents. And Geralt had never needed swords to best men.

“Who’s your loyalty to now, bard? Make a choice.”

Calanthe’s words caught him off guard, made his tongue stumble and his fingers shake at his sides. For once, he wanted to be quiet. He didn’t want to speak in this gilded hall he had almost called home.

There was a song on his lips, but it wouldn’t break free.

“You, of course, your majesty.” He said, sketching a bow that was low and respectful as prey before a beast. He did not look at the witcher on the floor, and he did not plan a quick escape.

“But if I might make a quick point—“

“Bard,” she growled, words quick and dangerous. A sword slammed into its sheath as she spoke, an echoing clash of metal on metal.

“Shut up before I cut out your tongue.”

His mouth snapped shut, but he didn’t bow and leave. Geralt was still looking at him, bright eyes burning too light in the gilded hall. The witcher didn’t look different, not for the three long years between them or the festering wound of a friendship.

Jaskier, for once in his life, was without words.

What did Geralt think, he wondered? Did the man wonder how Jaskier had grown silent, when the bard learned to follow orders? Did Geralt wonder why Jaskier had never followed the witcher’s threats?

Did Geralt wonder what Jaskier’s life had been like, without a strong witcher to sing about?

It didn’t matter, really. Jaskier had written many songs in the comfort of this court. He had grown fame, under the roaring protection of the Lioness of Cintra.

He didn’t need to see Geralt’s eyes.

⊱ ━━━━.⋅❈⋅.━━━━ ⊰

He needed to see Geralt’s eyes. Just once, he told himself. It was only the urge of an old friendship, clinging to the shadows of his throat. It was the song that had withered in the gardens of this court, but had not died.

It was something a child had seen and he had not, but Jaskier ignored that. What kind of bard would he be, if he didn’t follow his muse?

The village was quiet with the anticipation of war, but Jaskier walked lightly. He walked quickly too, feet moving between stone buildings like his voice moved through the air. Each step was faster than the last, and each breath harder to take.

He felt warm.

Geralt couldn’t have gotten far, not in so quick a time. Jaskier could catch him, if he stepped quickly enough. The witcher would turn, and—

And for once, Jaskier wasn’t sure what he would say.

But there was no Geralt in the village, no flash of white hair or broad shoulders. Two swords didn’t glitter in the sun, and there were no uncanny eyes to dig into his skin.

Where was Geralt?

“The king took him, bard,” said the baker, quiet and gentle into the shadows. The smell of bread threaded through the air and across Jaskier’s nose.

It did not smell like sword oil, and Jaskier didn’t care for it.

If the king took him, that meant the cells. If the king took him, that meant Jaskier would have to betray his patron and the life of comfort he’d lived here.

If the king took him, Jaskier would be marked a traitor.

⊱ ━━━━.⋅❈⋅.━━━━ ⊰

Betraying a queen was surprisingly easy, Jaskier found. It didn’t even take him long. His heart was pounding quick as a rabbit ran, but he stepped quicker. With war brewing on the horizon and the black boots of Nilfgard pounding at their gates, there were no guards on Geralt’s cell.

Jaskier’s path was clear, and so he walked fast.

There was a witcher waiting for him at the end of this tunnel, after all. Even if Geralt had a stick so far up his ass that not even a mage could remove it, Jaskier couldn’t leave him to rot.

He might not be happy with the man, but he still loved him. Jaskier had two years to get over his broken heart, and another one to realize he still felt.

A muse never left a bard, no matter how much he may wish it. And this muse sat crosslegged and patient as a wolf in shadows.

Bright eyes met his, in the darkness of a prison. Geralt looked worn, in the tattered clothes Jaskier had seen him travel in years ago. That might even have been the same shirt. Had the man washed it? Had the man bathed at all?

Jaskier didn’t know, but his tongue itched to mock it. He wanted to be complain about the clothes so he didn’t have to complain about the man. It was easier to look at the torn clothes than the bright eyes. Not that Jaskier was avoiding the man’s gaze, in the dim light of a cold cell.

Definitely not.

“Jaskier,” the man said, voice rough and dark as the shadows around them. It was rough as the metal under Jaskier’s fingers, but he tried not to hear it. He tried not to hear every slow breath Geralt took, and the shifting sound of hardened leather.

Jaskier was the paragon of self control, really. He should have been a monk, for all the discipline and restraint he showed now, on his knees with fine metal at the lock. He had learned to pick locks long ago, with the agile fingers of a bard. It took only a few moments, and quicker curses, to break this one open.

The door swung wide, light catching on the rough iron of every bar. It trickled to the ground, dusty with the shadows of a prison.

It was almost worth a verse in a private song. Jaskier hadn’t wanted to write for this song in so long that the impulse was almost foreign, like the taste of fine wine after a year of swill.

He had missed it.

“Geralt. When your handsome bard rescuer opens the door, you are supposed to leave the cell. Really, I thought you would have been an expert in this whole ‘prison escape’ thing.”

His tone was light, as were his feet, as was his heart. How strange was that? Jaskier felt like he’d breathed in fine smoke at court, and it had left him too bright.

He swallowed around the feeling, eyes on Geralt. His eyes were always on Geralt.

“Why did you come, Jaskier,” the man asked, voice gruff as falling stone. The witcher still didn’t shift, a caged wolf with moonshine eyes.

Jaskier had missed that voice. He had missed those eyes too, how they seemed to see through human skin and into the bones and soul of a person.

He had missed the bloody witcher after all.

“Oh, I don’t know. Maybe because we used to be friends? Maybe because I staked my song writing career— a fine and glorious one, I might add— on your adventures? Maybe because I’ve sucked your bloody cock and thought we had something.”

The words seemed to stun the witcher, for a quiet moment. Geralt’s eyes went bright as the moon above them, and they glimmered with more than sunlight.

Jaskier could get lost, in those eyes.

The screams kept him from wandering, dug his fine boots into the dust around him and made him shiver. The screams were so loud.

“Fuck,” Geralt said, low and rough. The man stood quickly, and fingers curled around Jaskier’s arm to haul him back. They were as strong as he remembered. Curse his brilliant mind for remembering them, and the melody of his songs for describing them too well.

Jaskier really fucked himself, hadn’t he?

“What is that sound?” He asked, as they raced through the tunnels like ghosts in the night. His boots were going to be filthy with the dust of this place, and Jaskier couldn’t bring himself to mind.

“It’s the sound of war,” Geralt said, voice rough with a life hard lived. It was a thrilling voice, but Jaskier couldn’t focus on it.

If war had truly come for them, Jaskier’s fine court was at risk. The very life’s blood of Cintra was at risk from the black boots of Nilfgard. They all had to leave, and fate bit at their heels to leave with Ciri.

Somehow, nothing in Jaskier doubted he would leave this place with Geralt.

“Bloody hell, Geralt we have to get out of he—“

Lips cut him off again, Geralt’s mouth hot as fire and twice as scalding. Jaskier burned under those lips, under the apology they whispered against him, and something like love shook from Geralt's hands. He would burn more as they left Cintra with the princess safe in their care and an army at their heels.

He would burn more, as the song in his throat broke free.

“ _Now_ we have to go,” Geralt said, and it was rougher than Jaskier had ever heard it before. It was a sound dearer than life, and damn the witcher to all hells for making Jaskier miss it.

Damn him for making Jaskier fall in love.

⊱ ━━━━.⋅❈⋅.━━━━ ⊰

There were moments in life that sang to men. There were places in the world where the air trembled with the howls of fate, and the very wind spoke of a future that would cut kings to pieces.

There were moments that told stories longer than time of men and fate, and there were men that spun those stories into song.

And then there was Jaskier.

**Author's Note:**

> Here is my [twitter](https://twitter.com/gotcocomilk), feel free to come say hi. I love hear if I wrote a particularly captivating or interesting line-- feel free to include it in a comment to feed your friendly neighborhood writing monster.


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